


With Thy Watchwords Honor, Duty

by Girl_in_Red_Crossing



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern with Magic, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Whump, Graphic Depictions of Illness, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-28
Updated: 2020-07-09
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:28:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 18,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24425026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Girl_in_Red_Crossing/pseuds/Girl_in_Red_Crossing
Summary: A cat stuck in a tree leads college student Jaskier to three mysterious brothers whose lives are on the cusp of change.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 200
Kudos: 1023





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This work will be seven chapters long (I think) with each chapter relating to a prompt or prompts I received on Tumblr. The prompt for a college AU as a whole came from Tumblr user xdandelionxbloomx.
> 
> Chapter 1 prompt: Geralt's cat, Roach, is stuck in a tree. Geralt has a deep-seated fear of heights. The innocent passer-by he asks for help, terribly embarrassed, is Jaskier, of course, who is delighted to taunt, uhm, help him (from Tumblr user swords-n-spindles).
> 
> I should also note that I am an American, so that's where my university experience comes from. I know some of my descriptions of college life may seem odd to those from other countries.
> 
> Title comes from my alma mater's alma mater.

The large, ancient oak tree in the center of campus, supposedly planted by one of the university founders, had taken on iconic status over the centuries and thus was generally treated with the kind of veneration usually reserved for war memorials. Jaskier hated it. He was of the opinion that trees, like all living things, could do with a bit of companionship now and again, so he made it a habit to divert off the gravel path that cut across the quad and give the oak a friendly pat on his way home from class. This bit of sacrilege occasionally earned him dirty looks from the students who had the school’s name emblazoned on all their clothes, but no one had ever confronted him about it.

So he jolted with surprise on the afternoon when his greeting to the oak was met with a quiet but deeply felt “Fuck.” He peered around the wide trunk, half-prepared to bolt if the distressed individual was an irate football player (or any athlete really--he’d had a nasty run-in with an angry member of the golf team in high school), but the guy standing there, though certainly built like a football player, wasn’t even looking in Jaskier’s direction. Instead he peered up into the oak’s branches, and as Jaskier watched, his scowl turned into a softly distressed expression that cut straight to Jaskier’s bleeding heart.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, and the guy jumped with the same level of shock Jaskier had felt and stared at him with wide eyes.

And oh damn, those were some gorgeous eyes, soft blue framed by long, dark lashes in a face that looked chiseled from marble beneath a mop of unruly dark-brown curls. His black T-shirt seemed to be moments away from begging for mercy from the chest and biceps stretching it. The combination made Jaskier want to simultaneously climb the guy like the tree they stood under and wrap him in blankets and cuddle him until they drifted off to a cozy sleep. Preferably both.

A pink flush colored the guy’s cheeks, and he looked away toward the clock tower at the other end of the quad. “Nothing,” he muttered.

“Oh, really?” Jaskier leaned against the oak’s trunk and pasted on his most charming smirk. “So you just go around tossing obscenities at innocent plantlife?”

“It’s just…” The guy shoved his hands in the pockets of his black jeans and then sighed as he frowned up at the tree again. “My cat.”

Sure enough, when Jaskier directed his gaze from the manly beauty before him to the branches above, yellow eyes gazed back.

“Roach!” the guy ordered, and oh yeah, that voice in that tone was doing nothing to hamper Jaskier’s instant attraction. “Get down.”

“You named your cat Roach?”

The guy didn’t answer, just clenched his jaw and set his shoulder against the trunk in an attempt to shake the limbs above. It didn’t budge.

“Looks like you’re going to have to climb up after him.”

The guy glared at him. “Her,” he snapped. “And I… it’s…” His anger melted, and that helpless expression returned. “I’m not sure the branches would support my weight,” he mumbled.

The guy _was_ built like a brick shithouse. Jaskier nodded as he slung his backpack to the ground. “All right then. Give me a boost.” He laughed at the dumbfounded look he received in return. “I may not be small, but I’m not quite as musclebound as you are. Besides, I am an excellent tree climber. Years and years of experience.”

The guy looked from him to the cat and back again. “She doesn’t like strangers.”

Jaskier waved that off. “Pfft. I’m sure we’ll be the best of friends.”

After another glance upward, the guy went down on one knee with his hands cupped in front of him. Jaskier grinned as he stepped up and then let out a startled yelp as the guy lifted him straight past the first two branches. Maybe he was a cheerleader.

Looking down, Jaskier smiled at the guy who was about to have a stellar view of his ass. “I’m Jaskier, by the way.”

It might have been wishful thinking, but he thought he saw the guy's lips twitch upward just a touch. “Geralt.”

“Nice to meet you, Geralt.”

Jaskier stretched for the highest branch he could grab and then hoisted himself up. (He did his fair share of push-ups as well, thank you very much.) As he climbed, his new proximity gave him a clearer view of his intended rescuee. Roach had lovely chestnut-brown fur unmarked except for a streak of white down her face.

“Oh, aren’t you gorgeous?” he cooed. As he came within arm’s reach, she arched her back and hissed. “None of that now. Don’t you know you have poor Geralt worried sick?”

Bracing himself with his feet spread across two branches and his hips against the trunk, he wiggled the fingers of one hand to distract her before darting out the other to catch her by the scruff. Her yowl of indignation only ended when he shifted her against his chest and she sank her teeth into the meat of his forearm.

“Oh, fucking-” 

“You all right?” Geralt called up.

“Fantastic,” Jaskier muttered, winching at the sharp stab of pain.

He managed to climb back down one-handed even while Roach kept him clamped in her jaws. As soon as they hit ground, she leaped to Geralt’s arms, and blood began to trickle down Jaskier’s wrist and drip off his fingers.

Geralt’s eyes widened. “Shit!” He shifted Roach from one arm to the other as he searched his pockets. “Fuck. I don’t have anything to…”

Jaskier nodded, holding his injured arm away from his clothes. He didn’t need to add bloodstained laundry to the current predicament. “Check my bag. There might be something in there.”

Kneeling down, Geralt unzipped Jaskier’s backpack and fished around while Jaskier mentally cataloged its contents to determine whether anything unusually embarrassing might be in there. The whole situation would be just about perfect if Geralt pulled out a string of condoms in the middle of the quad.

Fortunately when Geralt finished digging, he only had a handful of fast-food napkins. He handed them to Jaskier, who pressed them against the bloody punctures. Red spread through the cheap brown paper in growing circles.

“My house isn’t far,” Geralt offered. “We have bandages and antiseptic.”

That sounded like a lot more than Jaskier had back in his dorm room. He nodded. “By all means, lead on.”

Without his even asking, Geralt rezipped his backpack and slung it over his own shoulder before heading toward the east end of campus at a brisk pace. Jaskier hurried along beside him, trying hard not to think about the blood. Swooning into a man’s arms sounded romantic, but in real life, it would probably just come across as dramatic.

“I’m really sorry,” Geralt mumbled as they walked.

“You did warn me,” Jaskier reminded him.

“Still.”

He lapsed into a brooding silence after that, though he did direct a pointed “That was not okay” to the cat in his arms. Jaskier absolutely did not melt.

They passed through the wrought-iron gates in the wall that separated the bulk of campus from the city beyond. A few streets farther to the east, the centuries-old neighborhoods of Old Town with their dignified brownstones began, but a small pocket of unassuming single-family houses dotted the road just beyond the university. Geralt led Jaskier to a brick two-story with three motorcycles parked beside it, though one was perched on a jack of some kind. Jaskier wondered if it was Geralt’s. He knew nothing about automotive maintenance but had always admired those who did. Wondering if he could fit a class into the next semester’s schedule distracted him until Geralt let out a loud curse. The door at the front of the house stood open several inches.

“Lambert!” Geralt shouted as he pushed through the gap. “Close the fucking door when you get home!”

“Geralt!” a voice from inside yelled back. “Get rid of your fucking cat!”

After crossing the threshold (and making extra sure to close the door behind him), Jaskier peered around curiously. The living room was about what he’d expect from a pair (a group?) of college-aged men. A large, somewhat threadbare couch dominated one half of the room and a ping-pong table the other. Roach jumped from Geralt’s arms and dashed up the staircase behind the large TV connected to multiple gaming consoles.

A dark-haired guy (Lambert presumably) in nothing but a pair of athletic shorts sprawled across the couch watching basketball. He flicked his hazel eyes toward them before taking a sip of the beer in his hand and looking back to the game. His physique was almost as impressive as Jaskier guessed Geralt’s to be.

“This way,” Geralt told Jaskier.

He walked past the staircase and then a small kitchen with dirty dishes stacked in the sink on the left. He opened a closed door to the right and turned on the lights in a bedroom that could not have been more different from the rest of what Jaskier had seen. A wide neatly made bed stood against one wall beneath a window with actual curtains. The dresser and nightstand were heavy dark wood that had definitely not been put together from a kit.

“Is this your room?” Jaskier asked.

Geralt shook his head as he led the way into the small attached bathroom. “My brothers and I sleep upstairs. Our father sleeps in here when he visits.”

He directed Jaskier to sit on the edge of the bathtub and began rummaging through the medicine cabinet.

“Brothers?” Jaskier said. “So more than one?”

Geralt grimaced as he ripped the top of an unopened box of gauze. “There’s three of us.”

“And you all went to the same school? And live together?” As an only child, Jaskier found the idea foreign but undeniably appealing. “You must be close.”

“Sometimes,” Geralt muttered. “It’s just kind of… it’s a family tradition, I guess.”

After setting the roll of gauze and a bottle of antiseptic on the floor, Geralt sat on the closed toilet lid with a damp washcloth. He took Jaskier’s wrist in his (large, warm, strong) hand and gently pulled back the blood-soaked napkins. Jaskier winced a bit when they stuck to his skin, but Geralt dabbed at it with the washcloth and worked the stuck bits free. He threw the napkins away and cleaned Jaskier’s arm of blood, which he was grateful to see had reduced from a trickle to a slow seep.

“You need to be careful of infection,” Geralt said. His voice was always so quiet and even (except when ordering his cat or yelling at his brother); Jaskier found it soothing. “You should go to the health center for antibiotics.”

His gaze was so serious and earnest that Jaskier couldn’t help but nod back. Once the wounds were clean, Geralt retrieved another washcloth and doused it in the antiseptic. Jaskier couldn’t hold back his hiss at the sting, but he focused on Geralt’s apologetic expression and practiced his vocal breathing warmups. When Geralt finally finished, he wrapped the gauze tightly around Jaskier’s forearm and tied it off with a neat knot.

Jaskier flexed his wrist, and while the bandage was tight, it wasn’t uncomfortable and didn’t restrict his movement. “You’re good at that,” he noted with a smile.

Geralt turned to tidy away the supplies, but Jaskier suspected he was blushing again. He was about to try and subtly segue into asking for Geralt’s number when the sound of footsteps pounding down the stairs was followed by a new voice calling Geralt’s name.

“In here,” Geralt answered, and he walked out into the bedroom and then the hallway, leaving Jaskier no choice but to follow.

The third brother (or so Jaskier assumed) leaned against a counter in the kitchen sorting through the day’s mail. He wore a mechanic’s jumpsuit, and the name “Eskel” was stitched above the chest pocket. He had dark hair as well, and when he looked up, Jaskier could see that his eyes were blue like Geralt’s.

“Hey,” he said. “Who’s this?” When Jaskier gave his name and extended his arm for a handshake, Eskel saw the bandage and laughed. “Victim of Roach?”

Jaskier grinned. “Alas, the damsel in distress turned out to be the dragon in disguise.”

Eskel’s eyes flicked to Geralt. “You need to get over that fear of heights so you can rescue your own damn cat for a change. At least it wasn’t me this time.”

With a smirk and a raised eyebrow, Jaskier turned to Geralt as well. “Fear of heights?”

“Shut up, Eskel,” Geralt muttered with his eyes on the floor.

With another laugh, Eskel held up his hands in surrender. “I need to get to work, but I wanted to tell you our pills came today. Yours are on your desk.”

The muscles in Geralt’s jaw clenched visibly. “Fine,” he ground out. His eyes darted to Jaskier and then away again. “Go to work. Thanks for your help, Jaskier.”

And before Jaskier could reply or say good-bye (let alone get his number), he stormed off and stomped up the stairs. Beside him, Eskel sighed.

“Sorry,” he said. “Geralt is… well, he’s Geralt.” He nodded toward the front door. “I’ll walk you out.”

Lambert didn’t look up as they crossed the living room and left the house, but Jaskier noticed Eskel carefully shut the door behind them. 

“I’m guessing you’re the oldest?” Jaskier said.

“Not by much, but yeah. I graduated after the fall semester.”

“And you stick around to keep an eye on them?”

Eskel had a nice smile. Jaskier liked him already. “Something like that. Speaking of…” He pulled his phone from his pocket and offered it to Jaskier. “Put your number in there. I’ll see if I can get Geralt to text you.”

Jaskier grinned as he took the phone. He definitely liked Eskel already.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: modern AU caught in the rain with only one umbrella? (from Tumblr user ticktockclockwork)

The gods were testing Jaskier, that much was clear. He had come back to campus after spring break determined to finish the semester strong. He didn’t have any classes after 2 p.m. on Tuesday and Thursday, and he was going to spend that time in the library.

On the very first Tuesday of his brilliant new plan, he faced the first test of his resolve: if he was going to spend that time in the library, he was going to spend it soaking wet.

Normally he wouldn’t have minded the streaming sheets of rain, but the library was chilly at the best of times, and he knew his resolve to stay would be tested ever further than usual if he was trying to study while shivering.

Would it really count as giving up his plan if he never got started in the first place?

But the fickle gods, in their infinite wisdom, had sent this test not as a trial but as an opportunity. For lo and behold, as he stood beneath the awning of the music building, the salvation of his scholarly endeavors appeared, and he was holding a large black umbrella.

“Geralt!” Jaskier called.

Geralt looked around him with a confused little frown until he caught sight of Jaskier’s waving arm. Wishful thinking might have played a part, but he thought Geralt’s frown shifted to a smile for just a moment before smoothing into a neutral expression.

When he reached Jaskier, he nodded. “Jaskier.”

Jaskier clasped his hands in front of his heart and hit him with hopeful eyes. “Please tell me you’re going by the library.”

“I’m going to the library.”

“Even better!” Jaskier exclaimed. “Can I walk with you? For the sake of your company and perhaps a place under your umbrella?”

Geralt huffed, but Jaskier thought it was an amused sort of huff. “Yeah, okay.”

“You’re a lifesaver.”

As soon as Geralt switched the umbrella to the hand nearer to him, Jaskier latched onto his arm. The gods had also handed him a perfectly good excuse to feel up a spectacular bicep, and he certainly wasn’t going to turn it down.

“I will consider this payment in full for the Roach rescue,” he said as they set off.

Geralt didn’t reply, but Jaskier had gotten used to that over the past few weeks. Eskel had been as good as his word, and Geralt had sent him a text to make sure he was okay after the cat bite. The text itself was short and direct, but the gesture was thoughtful. Jaskier had reassured him of his health with a string of ten texts complete with emojis, gifs, and a flirtatious joke. Geralt had replied, “I’m glad.” And that had pretty much been their pattern since: Jaskier sent him anything and everything he felt like, and once in a while he got a one- or two-word response.

Eskel was a better correspondent, but even the advice he offered was limited. It usually boiled down to his familiar refrain: Geralt is Geralt.

Jaskier thought he was starting to understand what he meant. From anyone else, Geralt’s lack of engagement would have driven Jaskier crazy. From Geralt, it was just… Geralt.

He was glad they’d bumped into each other though since he hadn’t been able to formulate a decent excuse to drop by Geralt’s house. He tried to keep his smile somewhere below “like a loon” level, but it wasn’t easy. Sharing an umbrella usually led to awkwardness and tripping and arms still getting wet. But Geralt’s umbrella was big, they were close to the same height, and their strides were well-matched. The rain pattering against the fabric made their little dry bubble too loud to talk, so Jaskier just let himself enjoy the way the smell of rain in the air mixed with the smell of clean laundry coming off Geralt’s shirt.

When they pushed through the doors to the library, Jaskier grinned at the girl at the reception desk while Geralt shook the excess rain off his umbrella. The girl smiled back, and if it had been any other time, Jaskier probably would have gone over to strike up a conversation, but Geralt went from dealing with his umbrella to barreling up the stairs disturbingly fast. Jaskier grabbed hold of the strap of his messenger bag and hurried after him.

They passed the second and third floors, and by the time they reached the fourth, Jaskier was taking deep inhales through his nose in an attempt to look less out of breath than he was. Geralt wasn’t breathing hard in the slightest (the bastard). He headed straight to the far wall and a table with four chairs tucked behind the stacks. The surrounding area was completely devoid of other students, not surprising in a Geralt-selected study spot.

Geralt didn’t acknowledge Jaskier as he pulled his laptop from his bag, but he didn’t object to his presence either, so Jaskier took the chair diagonal to Geralt so they would both have room to spread out.

“What are we studying today?” Jaskier asked as he lifted the strap of his bag over his head.

Geralt grunted. “Magical theory.”

“You’re taking Professor de Vries’s class?” Jaskier asked. He couldn’t decide if he was baffled or impressed. “Why would you do that to yourself?”

With a scowl and pointed fingers, Geralt attacked the keyboard to bring up whatever he needed to study. “A friend at Aretuza said I should take it while de Vries is in residence here.”

“Are you absolutely sure this person is a friend?”

“I have my doubts,” Geralt grumbled.

Jaskier set his elbow on the table and his chin in his hand. “What is your major anyway? You don’t strike me as a magical studies kind of guy.”

“Animal science.”

“Really?” Jaskier tried to think of anything hotter than a strong man who loved animals and failed miserably. “What do you want to do after you graduate?” He actually gasped aloud when he imagined Geralt in a lab coat surrounded by puppies and kittens. “Are you going to vet school?”

Geralt slouched down until he was barely visible over his laptop. “I have to study.”

“Oh, right,” Jaskier said. “Yep. Me too.”

He tugged his anatomy textbook out of his bag, followed by his composition notebook. The university required at least one science class to graduate, and Jaskier had thought anatomy might be useful. After all, his body was his instrument; he should have a grasp on how it functioned. He did like learning about respiration and the proper alignment of the spine and all that, but he had not anticipated the sheer amount of memorization involved. He’d taken to writing songs about the various systems of the human body. Not his usual inspiration, but it kept his grade up.

He snuck a glance at Geralt, who glared at his laptop screen like it had personally wronged him. Being an animal science major, Geralt probably had a great handle on anatomy. Maybe Jaskier could ask for his help studying for the next exam. Maybe he could convince Geralt to handle his anatomy.

After snickering and offering himself a mental high-five for the pun, Jaskier got down to work. Getting started had always been the most difficult part of studying for him, but Geralt’s conversational shutdown set him on track, and before long, he was scribbling lyrics for his digestive system quiz. (That song was definitely _not_ going to be a hit.) He was still searching for a rhyme for “pancreas” when Geralt slammed his laptop shut with the same heartfelt “Fuck” he’d used when Roach was up a tree.

Once again, Jaskier felt compelled to help. “Everything okay?”

Crossing his arms over his chest, Geralt slid further down his chair until he could lean his head back. “Why are articles on magic always about dying flowers and catching lightning in a fucking bottle? Why can’t mages just speak plainly?”

“Well,” Jaskier said, as he spun his pencil around his finger, “language isn’t perfect, especially when it comes to a concept as nebulous as magic. Sometimes metaphors bridge the gap between our words and the feeling behind the idea.”

Geralt lifted his head and appraised Jaskier with a frown. “Are you a literature major?”

“Vocal performance actually. But any good songwriter studies poetry.”

With a soft hum, Geralt pushed himself up in his seat. “You write your own songs?”

“Try to,” Jaskier said with a smile. “They’re not always good, but practice makes perfect, right?”

“Does writing songs make you any good at writing essays?”

Jaskier laughed. “Oh, I am an academic bullshitter of the highest caliber, I assure you.” When Geralt looked down at the table, Jaskier ducked his head to try and catch his eye. “Are you having trouble writing an essay?”

“De Vries hated my last one,” Geralt mumbled. Sighing, he rubbed the heel of one hand against his forehead. “I need this course credit. I should have graduated in winter like Eskel, but my adviser fucked up. I _have_ to graduate this semester.” 

The emphasis sounded almost desperate, which Jaskier could understand. He was at the mercy of the stipulations of his own scholarship since his parents had refused to pay for a music degree. Geralt likely had good reason for needing to finish on time. He tried not to wonder whether he would ever see Geralt again after he graduated.

“How about this?” Jaskier said, and Geralt met his gaze. “I’ll help you with your essays if you agree to be my study buddy for the rest of the semester.”

Geralt raised an eyebrow. “Study buddy?”

“Yep,” Jaskier enthused. “I’m trying to commit to a study schedule, and I need someone to hold me accountable. You strike me as the disciplined sort of student, so we’ll meet here twice a week. I’ll help you write, and you’ll help me stay on task. Deal?”

After a momentary frown, Geralt nodded. “All right.”

Jaskier beamed. “Excellent.” He leaned across the table and tapped Geralt’s closed laptop. “Now show me this article you’re reading.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: geralt being so exhausted, like can't speak/can't think exhausted and jaskier takes care of him (from Tumblr user steeb-stn)

On a rational level, Jaskier knew that clasping his phone with both hands and tapping it against his forehead was unlikely to make a text magically appear. But rationality was overrated and nothing else was working, so that was the plan he’d been going with. He tapped a few more times for good measure and then sighed and lowered his phone to check the time.

Geralt was twenty minutes late. He was _never_ late when they met to study.

Jaskier thought back to their study session on Tuesday. Maybe something had happened that he hadn’t picked up on? Had he brought up the future? He’d learned several weeks ago that Geralt would shut down anytime post-graduation life came up, but almost every senior Jaskier knew felt the same. He knew that when he was staring down the barrel next year, he’d probably feel it too, that panic when the reality of _the rest of your life_ started to kick in. But they hadn’t had any awkward pauses in their conversations like that for a while now. Jaskier sometimes got a bit too chatty, but even when Geralt redirected him to studying, he did so with a soft, little, indulgent smile that made Jaskier’s chest feel light and fizzy.

Had he texted something weird? He brought up their latest exchange, but it was their usual back and forth, light, sweet, a little bit (he desperately hoped) flirty. Geralt had even started it with a photo of one of the horses at the stable where he did his clinical coursework. He hadn’t replied to Jaskier’s last message on Tuesday night, but that wasn’t unusual. He went to bed earlier than Jaskier, and he knew Wednesdays were Jaskier’s busiest days. Between a full day of class, a cappella practice, and his “office” hours as a resident adviser in his dorm, Jaskier was the one who didn’t always have a chance to reply that day. He hadn’t even noticed the lack of response when he’d passed out after spending hours trying to nudge one of the freshman girls on his floor into dumping her absolutely shitbag of a boyfriend. He never looked at his phone when a younger student came to him for advice or a shoulder to lean on.

So Geralt didn’t always text back right away. They’d even developed their own code about it: if Jaskier preceded his message with an asterisk, he wanted a quick answer if possible. He was very careful not to abuse the code without good reason, and Geralt always replied within minutes to those messages.

Scrolling down to the last message he’d sent--fifteen, no, sixteen minutes ago--Jaskier felt his stomach twist.

_*everything ok?_

The empty space below it lingered.

Staring at it nudged Jaskier’s memory, and his heart gave an uneven thump as he switched to his latest message to Eskel. It had gone unanswered too, and he’d sent it Tuesday night. Geralt was Geralt, but Eskel never let a whole day go by without replying.

There had to be a perfect normal reason, Jaskier told himself. After all, he hadn’t even noticed the lack of response until now. Eskel had probably just been busy with work, and Geralt had probably just decided to grab a quick nap and accidentally slept through the start of their study time. He’d just send Eskel a quick text, he’d get a reply, and then he’d know what was going on.

He typed out a quick _you there?_ to Eskel and sat back to wait. If he hadn’t heard anything in five minutes, he’d drop by their house and see if Geralt wanted to study there instead. No big deal.

He lasted two minutes before he shoved his books into his bag, threw it over his shoulder, and hurried down the library stairs. As he burst out into the late-spring sun, he told both his heart and feet to slow, but they didn’t listen. He jogged east and distracted himself from the uneasy pit in his stomach by counting his steps, though he kept having to start over when a whirling stray fear went whistling by like a shot that barely missed.

He lost count completely when he spotted a figure slumped in the shadow of the university’s outer wall. Even as his jog turned to an all-out sprint, he told himself it was fine; students grabbed snatches of sleep in all sorts of weird places, especially when the weather was nice and finals were looming. No one else seemed alarmed by the figure; he raised more eyebrows with his mad dash across the grass. Plus the figure was wearing a black baseball cap and sunglasses, and he’d never seen Geralt wear such things… except maybe in photos from the stable. But not on campus, never on campus, he wouldn’t… he didn’t...

His brain continued babbling excuses right up until the moment he crashed to his knees at Geralt’s side, and then it fell silent all at once. He watched as if from a distance as his hand reached to brush against Geralt’s cheek. His skin was chalk-white, slick with sweat, and strangely cold to the touch. With a feeling of dread that swallowed every other sight and sound, Jaskier slipped his fingers to the pulse point at Geralt’s throat. His own heart paused, peering over a terrifying edge, until he felt a slow, heavy thud against his fingertips.

The world came back in a rush of sunlight, distant conversations, and his panicked panting.

“Oh, gods. Oh, shit.” His other hand came up to clutch at Geralt’s shoulder. “Geralt? Geralt, can you hear me?”

He shook Geralt lightly as he desperately tried to make sense of what he was seeing. Eskel had mentioned pills the day they met. Maybe Geralt was… diabetic? Something like it? Maybe it was an allergy? Geralt didn’t have his backpack, so Jaskier patted down his pockets looking for a shot, pills, _something_. He didn’t find anything, and he realized that even if had, he’d have no idea how to administer it.

His hand shook so hard when he took his phone from his pocket that he nearly fumbled it into the grass. He’d never called for an ambulance before, but this was an emergency, right? Geralt was unconscious, unresponsive. That was when you called, wasn’t it? He needed help, and EMTs were supposed to help.

“It’s okay,” he said to himself as well as Geralt. “It’s okay. I’ll call for help, okay, Geralt? They’ll help you.”

He really did drop his phone when a hand closed around his wrist. Geralt’s fingers felt frozen, but his grip was tight, and when Jaskier’s eyes shot to his face, he could see a glint of Geralt’s gaze through the sunglasses.

“Home,” he mumbled.

“Geralt?” Jaskier’s voice sounded frantic, even to his own ears. “Geralt, what’s happening? What do you need? How can I help you?”

Geralt drew in a stuttering breath, then held it for a second before releasing it in the shape of the word “Home” again. He squeezed his eyes shut, and his hand squeezed Jaskier’s wrist. “Please.”

The soft note of pleading stabbed through Jaskier. He looked around desperately as if a big neon sign telling him what to do would appear. The house wasn’t far, just down the block a bit; Jaskier could probably get him that far. But should he take the time? Didn’t Geralt need help _now_? But if Eskel or Lambert were there and knew what to do, that would be even faster than a ride to the hospital.

He forced himself to take a deep breath. “Okay,” he told Geralt. “Okay. We can do this.”

He helped Geralt sit upright, pulled Geralt’s arm around his neck, and slipped his hand around Geralt’s waist. With a tight grip on Geralt’s T-shirt, he heaved them both to their feet. Geralt’s knees buckled, but Jaskier grit his teeth and held him up until he managed to get his feet under him.

“See?” Jaskier breathed. “No problem.”

Geralt clung to him, his face buried in Jaskier’s neck, but when Jaskier took a step forward, Geralt managed to match him. They fell into a shuffling kind of limp, slow but steady. Geralt’s whole body trembled with effort, and his gasping breaths rang loud in Jaskier’s ear. A few passers-by headed in their direction with concerned frowns, but every time someone got close, a soft whine left Geralt’s throat. So Jaskier shook his head and tried to force his lips into a grateful smile, but he had no idea what his expression looked like. Abject terror was probably a good guess.

By the time they reached Geralt’s house, his arms ached and Geralt’s feet were barely moving. Jaskier hauled him forward with every step until he could finally stretch out his hand for the doorknob. The moment the door cracked open, a brown ball of fur tried to shoot past him.

“Fuck! Roach! Not now!”

He lifted one foot to push her back, but the shift overbalanced them, and he and Geralt fell into the house and sprawled across the living room carpet. Jaskier snatched Roach by the scruff and then threw his weight back and slammed the door shut with his shoulder. She hissed and batted at him, but when he let her go, she ran off instead of biting. The door to the back bedroom swung open, barely missing her as she dashed by, and Lambert came storming out.

“Geralt, you fucker! I told you not to-”

His rant cut off as he spotted Geralt’s limp form. He hurried over, weaving around the couch, and crouched beside Geralt’s head.

“I found him collapsed,” Jaskier panted, leaning back against the door to catch his breath. “Do you know what’s wrong?”

Lambert ignored him. He bent down and pulled Geralt to drape across his shoulders in a fireman’s carry. When he staggered to his feet, the movement jarred Geralt’s hat and sunglasses loose. They dropped to the floor, and for a second, Jaskier could only stare as Lambert took Geralt to the bedroom. Where Geralt’s head hung limp against Lambert’s arm, no dark-brown curls bobbed. All of Geralt’s hair was stark white.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> By way of apology for the cliffhanger, I quickly supply the continuation.
> 
> Prompt: Maybe something where Jaskier comes to Kaer Morhen and discovers the wolf pups prefer to sleep in a cuddle pile? (from Tumblr user lookoutrogue) 
> 
> **Content warning: graphic depictions of illness**

The shock of the past thirty minutes kept Jaskier slumped against the front door, struggling to get his mind and lungs working properly again, but as soon as Lambert turned into the bedroom, as soon as Jaskier lost sight of Geralt, a fresh bolt of panic pushed him to his feet. He scrambled after them only to falter at the threshold like he’d taken a physical blow. The thick curtains in the bedroom were pulled closed, but the thin crack of light that leaked through allowed him to see the figure huddled in the middle of the wide bed. Only the top of Eskel’s head was visible from under the covers, along with the fingers that clutched at his hair with a white-knuckled grip.

“Eskel?” The name barely squeaked past the lump in Jaskier’s throat. “Lambert, what the fuck?”

Once again, Lambert didn’t answer. He eased Geralt down onto the mattress beside Eskel with more gentleness than Jaskier would have expected from him. He tugged off Geralt’s boots, and somehow the sight of Geralt’s stocking feet, the sheer vulnerability of it, was what made Jaskier’s eyes start to prickle with stress-induced tears.

“Lambert, what do we do?” The question came out more like a plea.

“ _We_ don’t do anything,” Lambert replied as he pulled the blankets up over Geralt’s shaking shoulders. “Thanks for bringing him back. You can leave now.”

Jaskier gaped at him. “Are you _shitting_ me? Tell me what’s going on.”

Lambert turned away from his sick brothers to glare at him. “None of your fucking business, that’s what.”

“They’re my friends!” Jaskier insisted, sweeping a hand toward the bed. “There’s got to be something… someone we can call or…”

Dragging a hand down his face, Lambert sighed. “Vesemir will be here in the morning, assuming his flight isn’t fucking delayed again.”

“Vesemir? That’s your father?”

The only response he got to that was an odd-sounding snort. When Lambert’s hand dropped back to his side, Jaskier could see the creases of worry in his brow, the dark shadows under his eyes.

“Are you sick too?” He could only whisper the words, as if speaking them louder would make them true.

“No.” Lambert turned away, his jaw so tight Jaskier could see the muscles twitching. “It’s not…”

“Not contagious?” Jaskier offered.

Lambert huffed. “That too.”

Too many mysteries crowded Jaskier’s head for him to try to tease out the meaning of that reply. “Well, you look like shit. How long have they been sick? At least let me stay long enough for you to take a nap or something.”

Lambert’s hands clenched and unclenched into loose fists at his side. After a long minute, his shoulders slumped.

“Do what you want,” he muttered. “I don’t give a shit.”

Jaskier expected him to storm out of the room and stomp up the stairs, but instead he circled the bed and sprawled across the empty space on the other side of Eskel and threw an arm over his eyes. The bed was big, at least a king size, but it seemed smaller with the three brothers crammed into it. Jaskier thought about Lambert’s odd snort, how he had called their father by his first name. He’d never pried much into Geralt’s family life--gods knew he didn’t want to talk about his--but he’d taken it at face value that the three were biological brothers or maybe half-brothers. Looking at them all together, he realized they didn’t really look that much alike aside from their coloring. They looked even less alike now that Geralt didn’t share their dark hair.

What had happened to Geralt’s hair was a minor question in the midst of all the others, but the contrast from before was so jarring that Jaskier couldn’t help but stew over it. He crept to the side of the bed and knelt down on the floor beside Geralt’s head. A fresh wave of fear churned his stomach as he watched Geralt’s shoulders shudder and his eyes roll beneath their lids. With a hesitant hand, he reached out to smooth back the white locks and grimaced when he felt how soaked with sweat they were. He pushed to his feet and padded to the small attached bathroom. In a cabinet built into the wall, he founded stacks of neatly folded towels and washcloths. He brought a washcloth back to the bedroom and started to wipe Geralt’s face, but he hissed and jerked in pain as if Jaskier had used sandpaper instead of soft fabric. When Jaskier switched to dabbing lightly, he seemed to settle. Jaskier sat on the floor, making himself more comfortable while staying within arm’s reach.

A small smile crossed his face when Lambert’s comically loud snores filled the room. Whenever anxiety and helplessness threatened to overtake him, Jaskier reminded himself that their father knew what was happening, that he was on his way, that he was an actual adult who (hopefully) actually knew how to fix this. So he sat on the floor, patted at Geralt’s face with the washcloth, and watched the crack of light move across the bed. Occasionally Eskel would mutter to himself, but despite straining his ears, Jaskier couldn’t make out more than incoherent syllables. He reached across Geralt to squeeze Eskel’s hands and prayed Eskel’s renewed silence meant he’d brought some comfort.

When the light had moved to the wall above the bed and started to fade, Lambert snorted himself awake. He continued his streak of ignoring Jaskier as he rubbed at his eyes and stumbled out of the bedroom. Cabinet doors slammed and pots banged in the kitchen, and a few minutes later, Jaskier caught a whiff of what smelled like tomato soup.

Geralt nearly knocked him to the ground when he lurched out of bed. Jaskier yelped at the sudden movement and watched in a daze as Geralt began to crawl across the carpet with one hand while the other clutched at his stomach. When he coughed weakly, Jaskier jumped to his feet, hooked his arms under Geralt’s shoulders, and dragged him into the bathroom. They barely reached the toilet before Geralt vomited violently into the bowl, his entire body spasming with the force of it.

Jaskier grimaced and kept his arms wrapped around Geralt’s middle, at first for comfort and then for physical support. Long past the point Geralt’s stomach was emptied, Jaskier could feel the muscles in his abdomen clench again and again, as his body tried to rid itself of whatever was making him so sick. He murmured soft words as Geralt feebly struggled to stay upright and then finally sagged and let Jaskier hold his weight.

When the retching finally ended, Geralt’s head lolled back against Jaskier’s shoulder. The shudders coursing through his body shook them both. Jaskier debated trying to get him back to the bed, but he wasn’t sure whether the visceral nausea had really passed. Instead he eased Geralt down onto the bath mat and grabbed a towel from the cabinet to fold and place under his head. His shirt was soaked through with sweat, so Jaskier peeled it off him and draped another dry towel over his shoulders. He’d just tucked it tightly around him to keep out the chill when he heard a shout from the bedroom. 

He peered around the bathroom door as Lambert barrelled into the bedroom without even noticing he’d slammed his hip into the door frame. He launched himself at the bed, where Eskel writhed and flailed. When he managed to grab one of Eskel’s arms, Eskel yelled again, grasped handfuls of Lambert’s shirt, and threw him away. Lambert pinwheeled back and crashed against the dresser. He stayed slumped at his base for a second, shaking his head, and Jaskier darted out to help him up, but he froze when Eskel’s head whipped toward him. The light from the open bathroom door reflected in Eskel’s eyes, and they glowed yellow.

“Eskel!” Lambert barked.

The sound of his name seemed to break whatever trance Eskel was in; he blinked and then toppled back to the mattress like his bones had suddenly turned liquid. Lambert pushed to his feet and went to the bed, and Eskel clutched at him again, this time to hold him close. The brothers murmured to each other, and Jaskier snuck out into the kitchen to give them a private moment. He moved the burning soup off the hot burner and turned off the stove. He doubted any of them would feel up to eating much tonight.

He was surprised when Lambert and Eskel emerged from the bedroom. Eskel leaned heavily on his brother, but he was upright, and his strangely yellow eyes were clear. The smile he offered Jaskier was small and wan, but Jaskier beamed back, relief at seeing his friend even a little recovered filling him with a bubbly hope.

“Geralt?” Eskel mumbled.

Jaskier nodded. “I’m looking after him.”

Eskel nodded back, and then he and Lambert started toward the stairs. Jaskier followed them to the base and watched their slow progress up in case Lambert needed help. But Eskel seemed to keep his feet, and the shuffle of their climb turned to the sound of steps creaking on the floorboards above. 

A quiet moan had Jaskier hurrying back to the bathroom. Geralt had curled tighter on the floor, and his face was twisted with pain. When Jaskier touched his shoulder, he groaned again.

“Hurts,” he whimpered, and Jaskier wanted to scream his frustrated helplessness.

“What hurts?” he asked instead. “Your head? Stomach?”

“All,” Geralt gasped.

“All? Everything hurts?”

Geralt gave a tiny nod as he trapped another soft whine behind his teeth. As carefully as possible, Jaskier lowered one edge of the towel he’d wrapped around Geralt. He thanked the gods when he didn’t see any weird bruises or bleeding, but when he brushed Geralt’s back with the lightest touch of his fingers, he winced at the tension he felt. Geralt’s muscles were cramped hard as rock, and even that tiny contact had him gasping in pain.

Jaskier wished again for some kind of sign of what exactly he was supposed to do when the guy he had a crush on was in horrible pain, and this time he got an answer: the sound of a shower running upstairs. He eyed the deep, wide tub that Geralt was huddled beside.

“Geralt? Do you… I could run you a hot bath?” Jaskier ventured.

Geralt groaned again, but it was the kind of groan that heralded the prospect of relief. Jaskier immediately turned on the tap, plugged the tub’s drain, and ran the water as hot as it could go without burning. He faltered a bit when he turned back to Geralt; this wasn’t exactly what he’d pictured when he’d imagined getting Geralt naked for the first time. But Geralt was so miserable, and Jaskier was desperate to help him, even in this tiny way.

“It’s fine,” he told himself and Geralt. “No problem. Just a friend bathing his sick friend.”

He resolved not to think about it any further than that and scooted down to remove Geralt’s socks. He winced again when he saw that Geralt’s feet were so cramped that his toes were spread at crooked angles. As gingerly as he could, he pressed his thumb into the ball of Geralt’s left foot. The muscle twitched beneath the pressure and then softened ever so slightly. Jaskier’s lips curled upward when Geralt let out a soft sigh.

He kept up the barely there massage as the tub filled, but eventually he had to turn off the water and deal with getting Geralt into the bath. Fortunately Geralt had put on a pair of loose sweatpants that day instead of his usual tight jeans. Jaskier dipped his fingers into the waistband and slowly coaxed the fabric down Geralt’s tightly cramped thighs. Once the pants were off, Jaskier allowed himself one brief moment to register how boxer-briefs were a very good look on Geralt before he averted his eyes and pulled those down too. Then he hurried to lever Geralt up to sit on the rim of the tub. When he lifted Geralt’s legs over the edge, Geralt slid down into the water, and Jaskier had to clutch at his shoulders to keep him from going under. He ended up soaked to the waist with his arms wrapped around Geralt’s chest and Geralt’s face tucked against his throat. The position forced him into an awkward lean with his ribs pressed against the hard rim, but when Geralt managed to lift a hand and squeeze Jaskier’s forearm in gratitude, Jaskier resolved to stay like that forever if that was what Geralt needed.

But the water eventually cooled, and Geralt began to shiver again. When Jaskier heard his teeth start to chatter, he gave into another impulse and brushed a light kiss against Geralt’s temple before standing and lifting Geralt to the edge of the tub. Geralt clutched at his shirt, panting into his chest, as Jaskier patted him dry with one of the towels from the floor. Together they fumbled their way back into the bedroom, and Jaskier wrapped the blankets tightly around Geralt’s shaking form.

The light coming through the curtains was all but gone, Jaskier was physically and emotionally exhausted, and Geralt continued to shiver despite the blankets. Before he could second-guess himself, Jaskier peeled off his wet shirt, toed off his loafers, and climbed into the bed behind Geralt. When he carefully tucked his arm over Geralt’s waist, Geralt burrowed back against his chest, his goose-pimpled skin desperately seeking Jaskier’s warmth. Jaskier pressed another soft kiss to Geralt’s nape and closed his eyes, hoping that everyone in the now-quiet house would get at least a few hours of much-needed sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: Vesemir explains it all.


	5. Chapter 5

The sound of the front door opening woke Jaskier the next morning. He stared at the ceiling in dazed confusion until the memories of the horrible night assaulted him, and then he immediately rolled over, heart in his throat, to check on Geralt. Dawn’s light had barely begun to filter into the room, but he could feel that Geralt was still that strange combination of sweaty and cold to the touch. Fortunately his breathing was deep and even, and the heartbeat beneath Jaskier’s hand was steady and slow. Really slow. Was that just what happened when you kept your body in a condition worthy of memorializing in song?

The memory of their first meeting hit him next, and he muttered a quick curse as he hopped out of bed and hurried into the hallway.

“Lambert?” he called as he tried to rub the bleariness from his eyes. “Make sure you don’t let Roach-”

His voice and feet both stopped dead in their tracks when he lowered his hands. The man standing in the doorway had gray hair and faint creases in his brow; he looked like a professor if professors had the builds of MMA fighters.

“You’re not Lambert,” Jaskier noted.

The man raised an eyebrow as he lifted a duffel bag from his shoulder and set it on the floor.

“Neither are you,” he countered.

He removed his long black coat next, and when he looked up again, Jaskier realized that his eyes were the same yellow that Eskel’s had been the night before. Jaskier blinked away his surprise and gave his overworked brain a metaphorical pat on the back when it supplied the necessary information.

“You must be Vesemir,” he said, and he couldn’t help but sag a bit in relief at the arrival of a real adult. “I’m Jaskier. I’m a friend of Geralt’s.”

Vesemir’s other eyebrow lifted to join the first, and that hunting-cat gaze flicked down Jaskier’s body. Heat burned Jaskier’s face as he became acutely aware that he was standing with a bare chest, bare feet, and a likely spectacular case of bedhead in the living room that was usually occupied by this man’s sons.

“Uh…” he began, but Vesemir cut him off with a wave of his hand.

“Where are the boys?” he asked.

“Geralt’s in the bedroom,” Jaskier answered with a gesture behind him… to the room that he himself had just emerged from in his current half-dressed state. His face prickled hotter, which he knew did absolutely nothing to make the situation seem more innocent. “I think Lambert and Eskel are upstairs.”

Vesemir’s hum of acknowledgment sounded so much like Geralt that a hysterical giggle bubbled up in Jaskier’s throat. He swallowed it down and watched Vesemir disappear into the bedroom before he buried his face in his hands. He peeked through his fingers when something warm and soft brushed against his ankles. To his surprise, Roach twined around his calves and then rested her front paws on his shin and meowed. 

“Oh, are we friends now?” he asked her.

In response, she sauntered off into the kitchen. He followed after her and could only laugh when she sat beside her empty food bowl and chastised him with another pointed meow.

“Ah, I see. We’re friends when you want food. That’s fair.”

Opening and closing doors as quietly as he could, he searched the cabinets until he found a stack of cat-food cans in a truly bewildering array of brands and flavors. Either Roach was the pickiest eater in the world, or she would eat anything. Jaskier prayed for the latter as he opened a can at random and dumped the contents into her bowl.

“Oh, good kitty,” he praised her as she tucked into her breakfast without complaint.

He threw the empty can into the trash and washed his hands and then eyed the coffee maker on the counter with longing. He didn’t think he had ever been so desperate for a hot cup of coffee. After a quick glance at the closed bedroom door, he shrugged to himself and renewed his cabinet search. He found the filters and grounds and set the machine brewing. As the familiar aroma filled the kitchen, Jaskier’s stomach growled in its own conditioned demand for breakfast. Figuring he had already made himself at home this far, he decided he might as well go all out. He found a carton of half a dozen eggs in the fridge that were about to expire and scrambled them in a pan while cycling a stack of bread through the toaster. After fixing himself a plate and a mug, he settled at the rickety card table in the corner. The first forkful was halfway to his mouth when the bedroom door opened and Vesemir stepped out. One of his eyebrows raised again as he closed the door behind him.

“Um… there’s coffee,” Jaskier offered.

“So I see,” the older man replied. 

He turned toward the stairs, and Jaskier half-rose from his seat. “Wait!” When Vesemir looked back at him, he lowered himself into the chair and clenched his hands in his lap.

“Will Geralt be all right?”

Wishful thinking might have played a part, but he thought Vesemir’s expression softened a little. “He’ll live” was all he said before heading to the stairs and up to the second floor.

Jaskier’s hands shook when he reached out for his coffee mug and then clutched it to his chest to absorb the comforting warmth. The bare-bones, bare-minimum nature of Vesemir’s reply seemed to starkly imply that the opposite could well have been true. Jaskier knew he’d lived a sheltered life, that a lot of people didn’t make it to twenty-one without ever coming into direct contact with death. Even his grandparents were all still alive, and he’d never been allowed a pet. A flash of retroactive terror for what could have been shuddered through him, and he closed his eyes. For a moment, he wanted nothing more than to dash into the bedroom and wrap himself around Geralt again and this time never let go. But his awareness of the man upstairs whose bed he had slept in made it feel like too great a trespass.

He opened his eyes when he heard voices upstairs. He could make out Vesemir as a low rumble, and he thought he heard Eskel as well, but they were quickly drowned out by Lambert’s rising volume. Jaskier focused back on his breakfast in an attempt not to eavesdrop on the developing argument. As he finished his eggs, he heard boots pound down the stairs, and then Lambert stomped across the living room, slammed open the front door, and stormed out into the early morning. Roach’s head perked up from where she’d curled on the floor, but fortunately the force of Lambert’s departure had swung the door shut again. A minute later, Jaskier heard the roar of a motorcycle engine and the screech of tires as Lambert peeled out of the driveway and down the street.

His mother would have been horrified to learn that Jaskier continued to sit there and eat his toast instead of taking the chance to sneak into the bedroom for his shirt and loafers, snatch up the bag he’d discarded on the couch the day before, and make a discreet exit. Discretion had its time and place, but Jaskier decided it amounted to fuck-all when his friends had been on the verge of death. He wanted answers, and if he had to interrogate an intimidating middle-aged father to get them while only wearing his trousers, so be it.

When Vesemir came down, the morning sunlight had cleared the surrounding houses, and it poured in through the front windows, illuminating the dark shadows beneath the man’s golden eyes. He poured himself a mug of coffee and then sank into the chair opposite Jaskier.

“Lambert said you brought Geralt home and stayed with him all night,” he said. “Thank you for that.” He lifted his mug in salute. “And for the coffee.”

“I was glad to do it,” Jaskier assured him. Then he shook his head. “Well, not glad obviously, but…”

Vesemir nodded before he could work himself into a ramble. “How do you know Geralt?”

“We study together.”

Vesemir’s mouth twitched at the corners. “Study, huh?”

Jaskier felt a sheepish smile cross his own lips. “I swear that’s been the extent of it.” He kept quiet about the hopes he’d harbored for anything more.

“Geralt’s never made friends easily,” Vesemir noted. “In fact, I think the only times I’ve heard him use that term were when he introduced me to girls he was fucking.”

Jaskier choked on a sip of coffee, and Vesemir chuckled. Then he let out a sobering sigh and massaged the muscles at the back of his neck.

“Eskel tells me you’re a good man and that you probably have questions. Is he right?”

“Definitely on the second one.” Jaskier shrugged. “I hope so on the first.”

Nodding, Vesemir leaned back in his chair, which creaked under his weight. He took a long swallow of coffee, licked his lips, and then fixed his piercing stare on Jaskier’s face.

“What do you know about Witchers?” he asked.

Jaskier scrambled to come up with an answer relevant to the current circumstances. Was it some kind of drug slang? Was this about the pills? Oh, shit. Had Geralt and Eskel overdosed? They didn’t seem the type, but Jaskier knew that meant absolutely nothing when it came to addiction.

“The only way I’ve ever heard that word used is in reference to the monster hunters from the Middle Ages,” he admitted.

Instead of contradicting him, Vesemir nodded. “And what do you know about them?”

“Well,” Jaskier began as he dredged up memories from high school history class, “mages created them. They made young boys into superhuman warriors to fight the monsters that used to roam the Continent. But as human development spread, many of the monster species went extinct. Those that didn’t were pushed to the edges, and most of the Witchers retired or reintegrated into human society.”

“I’ve always been fond of that particular lie,” Vesemir mused. “‘Retired’ certainly sounds better than ‘slaughtered by humans in our own keeps.’”

The word “slaughtered” rang so loudly in Jaskier’s ears that the rest of the phrase was slow to catch up.

“Did you say ‘our’?”

The creases beside Vesemir’s eyes crinkled when he smiled. “I did indeed.”

“How old are you?” Jaskier blurted.

“‘Old as balls’ is how Lambert likes to put it,” Vesemir replied before taking another sip of his coffee.

“Holy fuck,” Jaskier breathed. “You’re a Witcher.”

“Last survivor of the School of the Wolf,” Vesemir confirmed.

“I have no idea what that means, but… holy fuck.”

Vesemir huffed a laugh. “It doesn’t mean quite as much as it used to. Witchers as a whole numbered less than a hundred after the purges. There’s less than a dozen of us now, and we largely act as game wardens. We monitor the kingdoms’ ‘creature preserves,’ handle population control and strays.”

Setting down his coffee mug, Vesemir ran both hands through his hair and sighed. “The humans that attacked us made sure to burn our texts and destroy our potions so we could never make more of us. But last century, a few renegade Witchers began doing scientific research, trying to use modern medicine to recreate the old elixirs. Fifteen years ago, they started human testing.”

A cold curl of unease in his gut made Jaskier shiver. “They experimented on people?”

Looking into Vesemir’s weary eyes at that moment, Jaskier could believe the man had seen centuries.

“No matter how enlightened this modern era claims to be, you can still find children that no one wants.”

“Oh… oh, shit.” Jaskier crossed his arms and clutched at his own shoulders in a feeble attempt to shield himself from the truth he could sense coming. “Oh, gods.”

“The gods had nothing to do with it,” Vesemir said with a scowl. “But one of the renegades finally had a crisis of conscience and confessed to the rest of us what they’d been doing. By the time we got there, only three boys were left alive.”

The images that Jaskier’s mind created choked him like a hand at his throat. 

“Geralt, Eskel, and Lambert,” he whispered.

“We let the confessor live so he could try to reverse it,” Vesemir sighed as he rubbed the heels of his hands into his eyes, as if he could push down the memories. “The best he could manage was delaying the final transformation, so they could have part of a normal life. They each spent a month hooked to IVs, then two years with injections three times a day, and then he managed to create a pill form. We hoped they’d make it to their late twenties, maybe even thirty.”

“But they didn’t.”

Vesemir’s hands dropped to the table. “The mutations began to accelerate a few years ago, but this is beyond even our worst projections.” His fingers gripped the edge of the table, and the flimsy particle board crackled in protest. “I’d hoped they’d all at least get to finish school. Eskel managed and maybe Lambert could too if he stayed and took classes this summer, but he doesn’t much see the point and I don’t much blame him.”

“Why isn’t he sick like Geralt and Eskel?”

“He was the last boy they took,” Vesemir answered. “The others had been dosed for months before he started. But his turn will come, just like theirs did.”

Watching Geralt and Eskel suffer had been difficult for Jaskier, but he couldn’t imagine how much harder it would have been if he not only cared about them but knew that he would face the same suffering in a matter of months. As far as he was concerned, Lambert was entitled to all the sharp words and slammed doors he wanted.

“What about Geralt?” he asked. “He’s so close to graduating. He turned in his last paper, and I know all his clinicals are done since he practically lives at the stable.”

“He’d have to sit for his Magical Theory exam.” Vesemir glanced at the closed bedroom door. “Frankly it will be a miracle if he can see straight in a week’s time, let alone study.”

“Eskel seems better,” Jaskier pointed out.

“Geralt was always going to have the worst of it. They pushed him harder, gave him experimental drugs that had no equivalent to the old potions. Once he recovers, he’ll be the best of us, but he’ll be dragged through every kind of hell first.”

Jaskier’s hands clenched into fists on his thighs. “You’re sure you killed all of the bastards, right?”

Vesemir smiled. “All but the one. What they did to Geralt was what pushed him to confess.” His golden eyes flicked to the clock on the wall. “And nice as it is for you to care about Geralt’s schooling, you need to worry about your own. You have class today?”

A jolt zipped up Jaskier’s spine, and he whipped around to look at the clock. After everything that had happened, he’d forgotten that the world outside the front window was still carrying on with Friday morning. It was almost eight, and he had his weekly one-on-one with the best vocal coach on the faculty at 8:30. She rarely agreed to coach undergrads, and she’d made it clear that she’d boot him at the first sign of a slip-up, which could jeopardize his scholarship.

“Oh, shit!” Jaskier scrambled to his feet. “Oh, fuck. I have to go.”

Vesemir nodded. “I’ll have one of the boys keep you updated on how Geralt’s doing.”

“Thank you. I’m sorry I can’t… I’ll try to...”

Vesemir jerked his head toward the bedroom. “Grab your gear and go, boy,” he ordered.

“Yes, sir.”

Jaskier snuck through the door and scrambled as quietly as he could to grab his shirt and loafers. He tugged them on, grimacing at the still-damp fabric, but panicked as he was, he couldn’t leave without checking on Geralt one more time. His heart cracked when he saw the way Geralt clung to the blankets and heard how his calm breathing had changed to ragged panting. He knelt beside the bed and smoothed his hand over white hair.

“You’re going to be okay,” he murmured. “You hear me?” He leaned over and pressed a feather-light kiss to Geralt’s stubbled jaw. “And when you’re over this, I’m going to kiss you for real.”

A faint whisper brushed his throat. “Promise?”

Jaskier jerked back and didn’t know whether to laugh or cry when he saw the glint of gold from beneath Geralt’s eyelids. He settled for touching his forehead to Geralt’s temple and squeezing back his tears while letting his smile free.

“I promise.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Jaskier and Geralt in a field of flowers, and they both make flower crowns for the other (from Tumblr user aj-that-person)

For Jaskier, the next week passed in a blur of worrying about Geralt and trying to finish his own work before the end of the semester. He tried to stop by Geralt’s house every day, but Vesemir always kindly but firmly directed him back to his own studies. Once Eskel was well enough, his texts became Jaskier’s lifeline, assuring him that Geralt was recovering, albeit slowly. He also shared bits and pieces of their childhood in response to Jaskier’s careful questions.

Even those small details curdled Jaskier’s faith in humanity. Whenever Jaskier sat at his computer to research social mores of seventeenth-century Redanian nobility for his history paper, he ended up looking for information on Witchers instead. He found almost nothing and what he did find was clearly sanitized, sterilized, broken down to its smallest and least objectionable parts. He bounced between fury, despair, and the fiery drive to do justice to his friends. He just wasn’t sure how yet.

Then, a week to the day after he’d sent his last text to Geralt, he finally received an answer. It was as short as any of his earliest replies, but it was quite possibly the most wonderful message Jaskier had ever received.

_I’m OK_

While Jaskier stared down at his phone, hardly daring to blink for fear the words would vanish, it pinged again.

_Thanks_

Jaskier immediately asked when they could see each other again and tried not to feel too disappointed when he received: _Sunday? Study?_

Two days. He could wait two more days. He sent his enthusiastic agreement complete with as many celebratory emojis as he could find. After clutching his phone for another half an hour in the hopes of more, he finally set it aside and went back to his anatomy book. Within ten minutes, he was banging his head against his desk and groaning as his brain refused to process anything that wasn’t Geralt-related or at least Geralt-adjacent.

Two days never felt so long.

Sunday’s first light pierced through the holes in the cheap dorm window shade and granted Jaskier permission to finally, finally put all his nonstop thoughts and plans into physical action. His friend Priscilla’s hand-me-down minivan already waited in the parking lot across the street, its last row of seats removed, not for amps and instruments, but for the small collection of pillows and blankets Jaskier had amassed. He busied himself through the morning by trying to study for his own exams; he wanted to spend their time together focused on Geralt and whatever he needed. Once the morning crawled its way to a more respectable hour, he hopped into the van and drove to the nearest grocery store. He picked out the best-looking strawberries, good bread from the bakery, and the best meat and cheese from the deli. Back at his dorm, he fussed over assembling some sandwiches worthy of the day, put them in the little cooler he’d bought, and drove over to the house.

Only a week had passed since he’d last seen Geralt, but his heart leapt when he knocked on the door as if it had been a lifetime. He smiled when Eskel yelled for him to come in, and he executed an expert Roach scoop as he opened the door. She jumped from his arms straight to the back of the couch, where she stretched herself gracefully. Lambert and Eskel stopped their ping-pong game to greet Jaskier, and then Lambert lobbed one of the balls toward the couch. At first Jaskier thought he had aimed at Roach, which struck him as potential suicide, but the ball flew toward the seats of the couch. A soft grunt announced its landing.

“Hey, Sleeping Beauty,” Lambert said. “Your boyfriend’s here.”

While Jaskier tried not to let that fluster him, Geralt’s head appeared over the back of the couch, and he glared blearily at Lambert. As he struggled out of the blanket he’d been cocooned in, Lambert abandoned the ping-pong table to fetch a black bag from next to the television. He brought it to the couch and, to Jaskier’s surprise, pulled out a blood pressure cuff and a stethoscope.

Geralt let out a long-suffering sigh. “Do you have to do this right now?”

“Yes,” Lambert told him as he wrapped the cuff around Geralt’s arm. “Stop being a little shit about it.”

Jaskier watched in bewildered fascination as Lambert proceeded to take Geralt’s blood pressure, pulse, oxygen level, and temperature.

“Where did you learn to do all that?” he asked when Lambert put the equipment away.

Lambert snorted. “Where do you think? I’m in the nursing school.”

Jaskier didn’t think his eyebrows could go any higher. “You? Are a nurse?”

“He will be if he finishes his degree,” Eskel said. Lambert flashed him a crude hand gesture in return.

“I’ll finish if you ever beat me three times in row,” he said as he went back to the ping-pong table and took up his paddle, which he pointed at Jaskier. “Watch him,” he ordered, nodding toward Geralt. “Last time he went to see you, he collapsed. Don’t let him do it again.”

“Lay off,” Geralt muttered as he stood from the couch. 

“Make me, asswipe,” Lambert retorted. “Ignore me again, and I’ll fuck with your numbers until Vesemir keeps you in bed for another month.”

Geralt scowled at him, but when he turned to Jaskier, it softened into a smile. “Sorry. I just need to grab my stuff.”

His hair and eyes may have changed, but the floating feeling his smile launched in Jaskier’s chest was just the same. “Take your time.”

Jaskier kept his eyes on Geralt even as the raucous ping-pong match broke out on the other side of the room. His intention wasn’t so much to appreciate Geralt’s retreating form (although, yes, maybe a bit) as to watch for any sign that he wasn’t really as recovered as he seemed. But he moved without stiffness or stumbling, though Jaskier did note that he retrieved his bag from the back bedroom instead of from upstairs. He hoped that was just from an overabundance of caution on Vesemir’s (and Lambert’s?) part and not because Geralt was still too unsteady for the steps.

Eskel and Lambert were too wrapped up in their game to acknowledge Geralt’s return and his and Jaskier’s subsequent departure, and Geralt managed to keep Roach on the couch with a preemptive growl of her name. She gazed at him with wide-eyed innocence as though she had never misbehaved in her life. Geralt huffed and Jaskier laughed as they stepped out into the sunshine.

“So,” Jaskier started as he walked toward the van, “I know we usually go to the library, but since you’ve been cooped up all week, I thought you might appreciate something a little different.”

Geralt raised an eyebrow. “Like what?”

Jaskier grinned. “How do you feel about surprises?”

Geralt only hummed in response, but when Jaskier led him to the van and opened the passenger door, he settled inside without complaint. Jaskier hurried around to slide into the driver’s seat. When he winked at Geralt after starting the engine, Geralt rolled his eyes, but his lips twitched up at the corners.

“I didn’t know you had a car,” he noted when they pulled out.

“I don’t,” Jaskier replied. “This belongs to a friend. Though I’m thinking of moving off campus next year so I can get a better-paying job and maybe save up for a down payment. I like being a resident adviser, but I’m basically paid in free room and board. If I find a really cheap place to live and work enough hours, I’d probably make more.”

Geralt hummed again. “None of us have ever had to work. Eskel works at the shop because he likes it, and he didn’t think anyone would hire a mechanical engineer that was leaving the country in a matter of months.”

Jaskier decided to selectively ignore any thought of anyone leaving anywhere for the day. “Vesemir could pay for all of you to attend school?” His parents could have afforded that much and more if they didn’t tie every given dollar in a million strings. “I wouldn’t think Witchers would get paid that much.”

Geralt huffed a laugh. “They don’t. But making investments and then living for centuries means a lot of compound interest.”

Jaskier flashed him a grin, and Geralt smiled back before trying to smother a yawn.

“It’ll be about fifteen minutes if you want to close your eyes,” Jaskier offered.

When Geralt looked away, he worried he’d overstepped, that he’d reminded Geralt of his illness instead of helping him get away from it. But then Geralt relaxed in his seat and leaned his head against the window with a murmured “Thanks.”

Without thinking, Jaskier lifted a hand from the steering wheel and reached over to give Geralt’s hand a reassuring squeeze. He tried not to drive off the road when Geralt laced their fingers together before closing his eyes. Fortunately Jaskier had a lot of experience driving while holding onto delicate instruments in the front seat, so he didn’t have to pull away and deprive either of them of that physical link.

Geralt dozed peacefully until Jaskier drove into Nenneke Woods Park. The pavilion just past the entrance was overrun with balloons, running children, and signs that proclaimed, “Happy Birthday, Connor!” in cheerful letters. Jaskier smiled as they passed, but Geralt jerked awake with a wince. His free hand shot up to cover the ear closest to the window, though Jaskier could barely hear the muffled shouts. Jaskier pressed down on the accelerator and the van gunned forward. It earned him a few glares from the mothers, but Geralt’s shoulders unclenched as they put the party behind them.

“Sorry,” Geralt mumbled, looking down at their joined hands. “The mutations affect our senses. I’m still . . . I can’t always adjust yet.”

“You have nothing to apologize for,” Jaskier assured him in a low voice. “I’ll take you somewhere quiet. Okay?”

Geralt nodded, and Jaskier prayed to the gods that the spot he’d planned for them was just as deserted as it usually was. He’d found the field beside the little-used trailhead while out stargazing with a few friends from his dorm his freshman year. It couldn’t have been more than half an acre, but the way the surrounding trees framed the sky above when he lay in the grass made it feel like a pocket of space detached from time. His friends had been less impressed and complained of the cold, and Jaskier had made all of his subsequent trips alone on his bike. He hadn’t wanted to share it with anyone until he found someone else who would appreciate it.

His hope for a peaceful afternoon seemed well-founded when he pulled into the tiny parking lot with its cracked pavement and sprouting weeds. He finally reclaimed his hand so he could back into a spot with the rear of the van nosing right up to the grass. As he and Geralt got out, he watched Geralt tilt his face toward the sun and take a deep breath. No sound reached them beyond the birds in the trees and the bugs buzzing around the dandelions that saturated the field this time of year.

Geralt looked across the hood of the van at Jaskier and smiled, soft and sweet.

After returning the smile with what he was sure was a besotted expression, Jaskier hurried to open the hatchback of the van. He’d spread blankets and pillows across the open space left by the removed seat so they could sit in comfort while still enjoying the fresh air. When Geralt saw it, he ducked his head, but Jaskier snatched up his hand again and brushed a light kiss against his knuckles.

“Better than the library?” Jaskier asked.

Geralt nodded and let Jaskier tug him inside. They settled in among the nest of pillows, and Geralt even wrapped one of the spare blankets around his shoulders, which just added to his general air of adorable sleepiness. Jaskier opened the cooler and held one of the sandwiches out to Geralt.

“There’s food if you’re hungry.”

Geralt nodded again and took the sandwich. Jaskier grabbed one for himself, and by the time he finished unwrapping it, Geralt’s was half gone. He grinned, and Geralt frowned.

“What?” he mumbled around a mouthful.

“I’m just happy to see you eating,” Jaskier said with a shrug. “That’s a good sign you’re on the mend, right?”

Geralt swallowed his bite before answering. “I’m fine, Jaskier.”

Jaskier’s eyes dropped to the blankets as he felt his grin slip a bit. “I know, but seeing you like that? Top of the list of things I never want to experience again.”

A hand covered his, and he closed his eyes, drawing comfort from its warmth and solidity. Geralt’s hands were rough but in the reassuring way of someone who knew the value of hard work. Those hands were the reason he knew he couldn’t condemn Geralt to being cooped up in the library on a beautiful afternoon. He wanted more days like this. He wanted Geralt to take him riding, so he could see in person that rare smile Geralt seemed to reserve for his even rarer selfies with his horses. They belonged to the stable of course, but Geralt radiated pride and concern whenever he talked about their good and bad days.

When he opened his eyes, Geralt gazed back at him, a little furrow of worry between his eyebrows. Jaskier smiled, and his heart fluttered when Geralt returned his earlier gesture of support and brought the back of his hand to his lips. When he let go, he hunched his shoulders a bit and tilted his head in the way that had always before been accompanied by a flush of color to his cheeks. His face stayed pale, and Jaskier could only assume the mutations had stolen that little piece of Geralt that he’d held so dear. But he squashed down his pang of sorrow; he would never, ever see Geralt’s new form as anything but perfect.

“Okay!” Jaskier said with all the joy the day deserved. They were together and well and nothing else mattered. “Where’s your notebook? I’ll ask you questions from your notes while you finish eating.”

Geralt handed it over, and they finished their sandwiches (and Geralt polished off the extra) while going over the finer points of magical theory. Jaskier pulled out the container of strawberries and rewarded Geralt with one brought to his lips for every right answer. With incremental shifts, they gravitated toward each other until they were sitting pressed together from shoulder to hip. After an hour or so, Geralt began to struggle to collect the right phrases, and when Jaskier glanced at him, his eyes were half-closed.

Jaskier snapped the notebook shut. “Naptime,” he announced.

“I’m fine,” Geralt grumbled again with a frown. “I can keep going.”

“Uh-uh. I don’t want to think about what Lambert will do with that paddle if I bring you home exhausted.”

“Lambert’s an ass.”

“Lambert was scared,” Jaskier countered. “You didn’t see his face when I brought you home.”

Geralt’s frown remained, but he followed the press of Jaskier’s hand on his shoulder and curled up among the pillows. He looked like he was still working on a protest until Jaskier stroked a hand through his white hair and his eyelids fluttered. When Jaskier began to hum softly, the battle was lost, and within minutes, Geralt had surrendered to sleep.

As quietly as he could, Jaskier scooted out of the van and stretched in the warm sunlight. He set off to wander the perimeter of the little clearing to drive the kinks out of his legs, and as he walked, he plucked up the dandelions that caught his eye. He avoided the biggest and the brightest, opting instead for the half-wilted, half-trampled ones with more interesting shapes. When he had a decent bunch bundled in the bottom half of his shirt, he went back to the van and deposited them on a blanket. He sat with his feet hanging over the bumper and swung them idly as he wove the dandelions into a long chain. He selected each bloom with care, matching the damaged edges of each to the next like pieces of a puzzle. When he judged the chain long enough, he wove the two ends together to make a circle, and he smiled to himself. He’d dare anyone to call the flowers misshapen weeds now.

“What are you doing?”

Jaskier jumped and turned to see Geralt sitting up and rubbing at his eyes. With a grin, Jaskier reached across the space between them and set the circle on Geralt’s head like a crown. The flowers seemed all the more vibrant among his white hair and made his golden eyes glow.

“I declare you prince of the picnic,” Jaskier told him.

He laughed when Geralt tried to look up at his own hair with a baffled expression. He scooted closer on his knees and examined the blooms still sitting on the blanket. A soft smile spread across his face as he trailed his fingers over their small imperfections. When he looked over at Jaskier, his brilliant eyes stoked a warmth in Jaskier’s chest and a shiver in his spine.

“I dreamed about you,” Geralt told him in a low voice. “When I was sick.”

Jaskier pulled his legs up into the van, and then he shifted until they were face to face, knees touching. “Good or bad?” he asked in the same quiet tone.

A flinch flickered across Geralt’s face, but it quickly vanished. “Both,” he admitted. “But in one of the good ones, you promised to kiss me.”

Jaskier lifted his hands to cup Geralt’s jaw and guided him gently forward until their foreheads touched. He wanted to breathe in every detail of this moment, every perfect shade of warmth and light and affection.

“It wasn’t a dream,” Geralt whispered. “Was it?”

In answer, Jaskier used the gentlest touch to tilt Geralt’s head just so, and then he leaned in and brushed their lips together. They sighed in soft unison and then smiled together too, and then the smiles turned to laughter and another, harder press of their lips. Jaskier followed it with a succession of light pecks across the seam of Geralt’s lips until Geralt grabbed him by the hips and hoisted him up into his lap. Jaskier gasped, and Geralt licked into his mouth, no longer shy and sweet but eager and hungry. Not to be outdone, Jaskier wrapped his arms around Geralt’s neck and wriggled until they were as close as they could possibly be. Each taste, each hurried pant for air was thick with fulfillment and potential both. Jaskier wanted to stay kissing Geralt forever in one moment and then wanted to push him down onto the blankets and fuck him senseless in the next.

Geralt seemed similarly conflicted. His hands burrowed under Jaskier’s shirt and roamed the skin of his back even as he broke from the kiss and buried his face in Jaskier’s shoulder. When Jaskier felt the fingers against his spine tremble, he combed his own fingers through Geralt’s hair in a steady, soothing motion. They both slowly regained their breath, and Geralt’s hands slid down to rest at Jaskier’s waist.

When he raised his head, his eyes spoke volumes of regret. When he opened his mouth, Jaskier put his fingers against his lips.

“Don’t you dare apologize,” he said. “That was perfect. You’re perfect.”

Geralt shook his head but then kissed Jaskier’s fingertips. “I’m just tired of feeling weak,” he murmured. “I want to be strong for you.”

Jaskier laughed as he shifted his hands to grip Geralt’s massive biceps. “I really don’t think that’s going to be a problem long term,” he said. “For now, let me dote on you and kiss you and give you anything you ask for.”

One of Geralt’s eyebrows and the corner of his lips twitched upward. “Anything?”

Jaskier nodded firmly. “Anything.”

Geralt’s eyes traveled to the remaining flowers, and he did his little shoulder shrug and head tilt again. “Will you teach me to make a crown?” he asked. “For you?”

“Ugh!” Jaskier groaned as he threw his head back. “I cannot handle how darling you are.” Then he leaned down to pepper Geralt’s face with kisses again. “Yes, yes, a million times yes. We will make me a crown and then one for Eskel and one for Lambert and one for Vesemir.” He grinned at Geralt. “And one for dear Roach, of course.” He gasped in delight. “I could take a family photo! All of you in your flower crowns.”

Geralt snorted. “You’ll get thrown out of the house if you try.”

“You forget that I am persuasively adorable,” Jaskier replied with a cheeky grin.

Geralt rolled his eyes but then pulled him in for another kiss, and Jaskier couldn’t resist the smug thought that Geralt had just proved his point for him.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: “I remember practicing how to ask you out in the mirror" (from Tumblr user seijishun)

The day of Geralt’s exam, Jaskier woke up with nervous energy threatening to burst from every pore. He endured the glares as he took one of his own finals and tapped his feet, his fingertips, and his pen on every available surface. He wrote the answers on auto-pilot, barely aware of the words but confident that his gods-given talent for eloquent bullshit would win the day. As he scribbled the last sentence, he was already standing, and he all but flung the composition book at the proctor before hurrying out into the late afternoon.

He arrived at the house sweaty and panting and let himself in without a knock. For once, Roach was nowhere near the portal to freedom; the only occupants of the living room were Lambert (wearing glasses!), a mess of papers reminiscent of tornado wreckage, and a laptop that Jaskier swore he heard beg for mercy as Lambert slammed on the keys.

“Don’t even fucking talk to me,” Lambert said, hand upraised, before Jaskier had caught his breath. “Just fucking go upstairs.”

Jaskier offered a silent salute to his fellow end-of-semester casualty and hurried up the steps, both in respect to Lambert and from curiosity. He’d never seen the second floor of the house, and the knowledge that Geralt felt recovered enough to reclaim his regular bedroom added extra fuel to his pace. When he reached the landing, he saw an open door (a bathroom in desperate need of cleaning) and a closed door (presumably one of the bedrooms) on the left. To the right were two other open doors. Past one, posters of scantily clad models presided over piles of papers, books, and clothes. The other bedroom looked empty.

No, Jaskier corrected himself as he hovered in the doorway, it _was_ empty. The mattress on the bed frame had been stripped of its sheets, and nothing lined the bookshelves. A small stack of boxes, sealed with tape, was piled in one corner. The sick feeling of dread that came over him felt physical, visceral, like a living thing squirming in his gut. When Geralt emerged from the equally empty closet, Jaskier suspected his look of shocked near-horror was a solid match for Jaskier’s own.

“I… thought you were Eskel,” Geralt said after a long moment, as if that explained anything at all.

“Well, I’m not,” Jaskier replied. “If you’d known it was me, would you have stayed in the closet?” he asked with a wave behind Geralt and an attempt at a light voice that fell miserably flat.

When Geralt didn’t answer, when he looked away, when he didn’t greet Jaskier with a kiss or an embrace or even a godsdamned smile, the living thing inside him began to swallow him from the inside out.

“Please tell me you’re just getting your packing done early.” The words fell from his lips like a plea. “Graduation isn’t until this weekend.”

Four days. There were supposed to have at least four more days. Geralt had to leave—Jaskier didn’t completely understand why, but he respected the mentions of training and other Witcher-y things that Vesemir said needed to happen back in Kaedwen—but they were supposed to have four more days.

“I’m not going to graduation,” Geralt mumbled to the indentations in the carpet where his desk chair must have been.

“What?” Concern temporarily upstaged the other feelings that threatened to turn their romance into tragedy. “The exam? But you knew it all! There’s no way de Vries could fail you! You should ask the dean to review your essays or-”

“I didn’t fail,” Geralt interrupted.

“You…? That’s… that’s good. Great even.” Jaskier tried to smile, but it twisted the wrong way. “I’m surprised she let you know your grade already.”

“She knew when I was leaving and agreed to mark my exam right after.”

A brittle laugh wrestled its way past Jaskier’s lips. “Oh, she knew when you were leaving. Would you care to enlighten the rest of us?”

Geralt’s gaze went to the window, as though judging the time by the sun. “We’re taking the red-eye back to Kaedwen tonight.”

“Tonight,” Jaskier repeated. “Were you planning on telling me?”

Geralt’s eyes didn’t leave the street outside. The lack of any response was answer enough.

Jaskier swallowed. Licked his lips. Forced back the tears that threatened to blur his vision. “You know, you could have gotten a tutor from the student resource center. You didn’t have to pretend to like me to get help with your class.”

Even with his face turned away, Jaskier could see Geralt’s flinch. Maybe because the accusation hurt. Or maybe because Jaskier had finally figured out the truth and Geralt just hadn’t wanted to get caught out.

“Right. I’ll just . . . go say good-bye to Eskel then.”

For the length of a prayer, Jaskier waited for Geralt to turn back, to say _something_. Then he promptly became an atheist.

“See you around, Geralt.”

As he turned, he kept his eyes fixed on the carpet, not daring to blink for fear that releasing even one tear would break the dam of self-control he clung to. He didn’t look up until he tried to cross the threshold and ran into a solid body instead of open space. He stumbled back, but Eskel caught him by the shoulders and held him upright.

“He wasn’t pretending,” he said while Jaskier struggled to do anything but stare at him. The quirk of his lips was wry. “Believe me, I heard him practicing asking you out in the mirror.”

“Fuck off, Eskel,” Geralt growled.

“I would, but your stupidity was so loud that it distracted me from packing.”

Despite Jaskier’s feeble resistance, Eskel turned him bodily to face Geralt again. He sincerely hoped the mutations came with superhuman strength because the ease with which Eskel manhandled him was nothing short of humiliating.

“Talk,” Eskel demanded, and then he left, closing the door behind him.

Despite being sure that Eskel intended his order mostly for Geralt (and despite his own pride), Jaskier couldn’t resist breaking the silence. “You practiced asking me out?”

“That was–” The muscles in Geralt’s jaw worked as he clenched and unclenched his teeth. “Before.”

“Before what?”

The look Geralt threw at him was full of aggravated disbelief, but at least he was _looking_.

“You think I care about . . . ?” Jaskier finished his statement with a sweeping gesture that encompassed Geralt’s altered form.

“You should,” Geralt bit out.

“Well, I don’t.” Jaskier cocked his head. “If you were worried about that, why even consider asking me out? Why spend time with me at all?”

“We . . . _I_ was supposed to have more time.”

Jaskier barked a short laugh. “So what was the plan exactly? Long term, I mean. We were supposed to date for a few years, and then when you changed, I was supposed to fuck right off? ‘Thanks for the fun, have a nice life’?”

After another glare, Geralt looked away again. All of the stiff tension seemed to vacate his body, leaving him to slump down on the edge of the bed. He leaned his elbows on his knees and pressed his face into his hands.

“It was stupid,” he mumbled. “That’s why I didn’t do it.”

“But you did kiss me,” Jaskier pointed out.

“That was stupid too.”

“I beg to differ.”

He approached the bed slowly, warily, but Geralt didn’t move away when Jaskier sat beside him. “Did you want to kiss me?” When Geralt snorted toward the floor, Jaskier nudged him with an elbow. “Verbal response please.”

“Yes.” The word might have been muffled by his palms, but it came without hesitation.

Jaskier edged closer until he could feel the heat of Geralt’s body from his shoulder to his knee. “You know that’s okay, right? You’re allowed to have comfort and affection, even now. Especially now.”

He waited as patiently as he could through the long silence that followed, resisting the urge to touch, to prod, to babble out his own insecurities. He’d always been the flighty one in his relationships, the one who refused to make promises knowing he would only break them when his distractible heart fluttered to a new bright flower. He’d never imagined himself as the kind of partner who would be a source of solid support, a place for someone to land and rest.

For Geralt, he thought he could be. For Geralt, he _wanted_ to be.

“I’m fucked up, Jaskier.” The words were quiet, but Jaskier was so focused on the man beside him that he would have heard them in a whisper. “More than most people. The things they did to me . . . ”

The heaviness of his unspoken pain settled between them. It couldn’t be diminished or brushed aside or taken away, for all that Jaskier would have given a limb to do so. If they moved forward, Jaskier would have to live with the knowledge that he could never, ever fix it. He’d have to accept not only Geralt’s limitations (which seemed easy) but his own (which felt almost impossible). He could try, and he could fail. He could hurt them both. He probably would hurt them both in some way at some time. They’d hurt each other. He refused to lie and say they wouldn’t.

So he settled for the truth.

“I like you,” he said. “A lot. I think I could love you if you’ll let me.” He didn’t say that he thought he probably already did. “If you . . . I know this is a lot to ask, but if you set aside everything else, do you think you could love me too?”

Geralt didn’t lift his head from his hands. He didn’t speak. But he nodded.

From anyone else, such a tiny gesture might have seemed inadequate, maybe even indifferent. Jaskier knew that, from Geralt, it was as good as a dozen white doves and a thousand red roses.

Despite the way his heart longed to leap out of his chest and shower every inch of Geralt with devotion, he stayed quiet and calm. He would have other chances, he told himself, other opportunities. He’d weave Geralt a million flower crowns and feed him a million sandwiches and draw him a million baths when he was ready to accept the care he’d allowed when he was ill.

“I’m glad,” he said. “I’m really glad.” He laughed a little at the massive, massive understatement. “I'd like to stay in touch while you're gone.”

At that, Geralt emerged from his hiding, and the hope in his eyes was so tentative, so close to bolting away in fear, that Jaskier couldn’t resist lacing their fingers together.

“I don’t know when we’ll see each other again,” Geralt warned him. “I’ll probably only leave Kaedwen for authorized hunts. Most countries still restrict Witcher travel.” He looked down at their joined hands. “That’s part of why we have to leave.”

Jaskier forced his outrage at that particular injustice onto a shelf in his mind to stew over later. “Well, I can go where I want once I graduate. I planned to travel more of the Continent. There’s so much I haven’t seen yet.” He smiled. “Maybe I’ll start by seeing Kaedwen.”

“Jaskier . . . ” Geralt began, but he’d had enough of protests and covered Geralt’s lips with his fingers.

“My future is my business,” he insisted. “My present is helping you finish packing and kissing you again if that’s acceptable to you. There might also be pizza involved.”

Geralt’s huff blew warm on his fingertips. “Yes.”

Jaskier raised an eyebrow. “To which?”

“All of it,” Geralt replied, and he reached up to guide Jaskier’s fingers to rest against his cheek. “Especially the pizza.”


	8. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Jaskier waxing poetic about Geralt in Kaer Morhen in front of Vesemir, Eskel, and Lambert and being obviously and unrepentantly in love (from Tumblr user rebelcommanderpoe)

“For the sake of every fucking god in heaven, would you slow the fuck down?” Jaskier demanded for the tenth time as he tightened his already white-knuckled grip on the car door.

“You bought this thing because it could handle rough terrain,” Lambert noted while actually pressing on the accelerator, the bastard.

“Rough terrain, yes. Not a blizzard in the mountains when it’s pitch black!”

“I can see just fine.” Jaskier yelped when Lambert took a hand off the steering wheel to wave at his transformed eyes. “I even tossed my contacts when we packed up the house.”

“And I’m thrilled for you, truly. But your spectacular eyesight won’t mean shit if you drive us off a cliff. And if that doesn’t worry you, consider that the trailer that is currently fishtailing behind us has not only your motorcycle but Geralt’s and Eskel’s as well. Do you really want to face the wrath of Eskel if you scratch his baby?”

“Eskel can fuck off,” Lambert grumbled under his breath. He did, however, ease off the gas. With a sigh of relief, Jaskier loosened his grip on the door and stretched out his fingers. Lambert’s eyes left the road just long enough to roll at him.

“What happened to ‘Oh, I can’t wait to get there! Lambert, you should drive this leg since you know the way! I don’t want to waste a second of time I could spend gazing at Geralt and kissing his dumb face!’”

“Okay, first of all, I don’t speak in falsetto. Second of all, if I did, it would sound a hell of a lot better than that.”

Lambert threw him a smirk. “I’m telling Geralt you didn’t deny he has a dumb face.”

“You’ve never heard the expression ‘stupidly handsome’?” Jaskier asked with a grin. He let out another yelp when Lambert punched him in the shoulder. “Hey, watch it! I’m still a delicate human.”

“Delicate, my ass. You practically made Dean Ostrit wet himself.”

Even the mention of the man’s name had Jaskier’s teeth grinding. He’d felt zero shame leveraging the Pankratz name against that particular asshole. “How in Melitele’s name does the head of a nursing school believe it’s acceptable to drop a student who missed class due to illness?”

He was still quietly seething at the whole situation when Lambert cleared his throat.

“You didn’t have to do that, you know,” he muttered. “I didn’t care if I graduated or not.”

Jaskier glanced at him. “Well, maybe I did.”

Lambert’s grunts were as eloquent as those of any of the members of his family, and Jaskier smiled to himself as he turned to gaze out at the falling snow.

The storm lessened in intensity as they reached the other end of the pass and the seemingly endless switchbacks gave way to straight, open road. By the time they pulled off the narrow highway, Jaskier could see well enough to read the wooden sign swinging in the wind.

_Kaer Morhen Ranch. No Trespassing._

“Somebody already plowed the way in,” Lambert said, shaking his head. “And by somebody I mean your whipped boyfriend.”

“He’s not whipped,” Jaskier retorted absently.

He wasn’t actually Jaskier’s boyfriend either, but he couldn’t bring himself to say that out loud. Sure, they’d texted and talked and video chatted constantly in the months since they’d seen each other, but neither of them had made any promises besides their one conversation about how they _could_ love each other. When Jaskier had moved into the house with Lambert so he could take summer classes to graduate early (and so he could be there if Lambert’s mutations came on as suddenly as Geralt’s and Eskel’s), Geralt’s response had mostly been disbelief that Jaskier was volunteering to live with Lambert. When he’d floated the idea of coming to the ranch after graduation, Geralt’s response had been all logistics: what he would need to bring, what he wouldn’t have access to. He’d painted a pretty grim picture of how isolated they would be all winter.

Maybe he’d been trying to convince Jaskier not to come. Maybe Jaskier was about to trap himself for an entire season among people who didn’t really want him there but hadn’t found a way to refuse. As the lights of the ranch house came into view, his heart sped to pounding and sweat prickled his palms.

What if Geralt didn’t want him there?

The dark shapes between the lights took on firmer form as they swung into the circular drive. The house was only one story but sprawled to a comfortable size. The front at least had small windows and a rustic air; it reminded Jaskier of the main hall of a summer camp he’d attended as a kid. Even through the car windows, he could smell smoke from a chimney in the air. The headlights continued on until they illuminated two figures wrapped in thick coats and hats leaning against a pickup truck with a plow attached. They both raised their arms to shield their eyes from the light, and one of them raised a gloved hand to form a rude gesture.

Lambert laughed as he cut the engine. Then he was gone, leaving the driver’s side open to let in the freezing air as he hurtled out to tackle one figure into the snow. The other figure approached the car, and despite all of his anxiety, Jaskier was helpless against the smile that automatically curved his lips as Geralt opened his door. It stretched to a grin when Geralt tugged him out of the car and wrapped him in his arms, burying his cold nose against Jaskier’s throat.

“I missed you.”

The quiet words spoken against his skin popped every bubble of anxiety, and Jaskier had to squeeze his eyes shut as undiluted joy washed through him.

“Gods, I missed you so much,” he murmured back. His happiness sprang out in a laugh that echoed into the snowy night. “Also, fuck, it’s cold!”

He’d only worn a hoodie while in the warm car, and it did nothing to shield him from the biting air. Geralt pulled back to smile at him and rub his hands along Jaskier’s arms, but Jaskier burrowed into his chest again with a whine. He could feel Geralt’s chuckle as strong arms enveloped him again.

“Get what you need for tonight,” he said. “We can unload the rest in the morning.”

Jaskier nodded and braced himself before leaving the shelter Geralt provided. He moved as quickly as he could, whipping open the back door of the car and thrusting his duffel bag and guitar case at Geralt. He reached in with gentler hands to pull out his newest musical acquisition.

Geralt raised an eyebrow at the non-guitar-shaped case. “What is that?”

“It’s a fucking lute,” Lambert announced from where Eskel had him pinned in the snow. “And he doesn’t have the first clue how to play it.”

“Like you’d know,” Jaskier shot back before turning to Geralt with a slightly sheepish smile. “I have the first clue. I’m just still working on the second.”

Geralt shook his head but his eyes were fond, and Jaskier hurried to follow him as he led the way into the house. He groaned in relief as a wave of heat from the large fireplace in the main room welcomed him, along with the warming smells of cooking garlic and onions.

Geralt hesitated just inside the entryway. “Vesemir’s cooking supper. It’ll be about an hour. I could show you where you’ll be staying?”

Jaskier nodded eagerly. They passed through the high-ceilinged main room, which definitely reminded Jaskier of a summer camp with its exposed wood and stone. The major difference was the furniture: solid, heavy pieces that his mother’s antiquing friends would be absolutely swooning over. He whistled as they passed a mahogany table in the hallway that even he knew dated at least three centuries back.

“Do you know how old some of this stuff is?” he asked Geralt. “How valuable?”

Geralt shrugged. “Vesemir’s lived here a long time.”

Jaskier hoped Vesemir didn’t mind questions about his life because he already had enough to last them all winter (starting with the original lyrics to every medieval song he wanted to learn on his new lute). He forgot them all when Geralt opened a door and stepped back to let him enter a room he instantly recognized from their video calls. Turning in a slow circle, he took in the familiar white plaster walls, the thick wooden beams, the queen-size bed with its faded maroon quilt. Two dressers stood side-by-side against a wall where he only remembered seeing one, but he was sure it was the same room.

He completed his circle and ducked his head to meet Geralt’s downcast gaze. “This is your room.”

“The house only has four bedrooms,” Geralt said with a hint of apology. Then he let out a slight huff. “So unless you want to share with Lambert . . . ”

Jaskier laughed. “Sharing a house with him is one thing. I think sharing a room would cross the line into too much togetherness, especially after the road trip to get here.” His eyes cut back toward the one bed, and he licked his lips. “Is this . . . are you comfortable sharing like this? With me?”

Geralt nodded, but he didn’t look up from the carpet. “If you’re not, I can bunk with Eskel.”

“No!” Jaskier hurried to assure him. “I want to.”

Gods, did he want to. He tried to think of anything better than waking up to Geralt beside him every morning, and he failed harder than he’d ever failed at anything in his life.

Geralt’s answering smile was a morning all in itself, a brightening filled with promise and hope. He stepped around Jaskier to set his duffel bag next to one of the dressers and then took his guitar case to what Jaskier assumed was the closet. Following with his lute case, Jaskier stumbled to a stop in the open doorway.

The space had clearly once been a walk-in closet, but it was empty except for a desk and a chair. The walls and ceiling has been covered with acoustical panels, and Jaskier ran his fingers over their dips and ridges before turning to Geralt with a questioning look. Geralt answered with his typical embarrassed shrug and head tilt.

“I thought you might want a place to write and record music while you’re here.”

For once, Jaskier didn't search for the right words. He gently set his lute case on the floor and then grasped both sides of Geralt’s jaw and pulled him into a kiss that radiated all the love he hadn’t yet spoken. He would speak of it again and again and again. He would sing of it. He would shout it into the mountain air. But for now, he let his lips and tongue communicate in other ways, the ways that Geralt knew best, the ways of heartfelt action and genuine gestures of acceptance and care.

While he unzipped and tugged and pulled to divest Geralt of his coat and hat, Geralt returned the favor and all but ripped off his hoodie. They didn’t stop there, and the one-time closet had to return to its former duties as a place for discarded clothes.

They were very nearly late for supper.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! I am shy about replying to comments here, but I treasure them all.
> 
> You can find me on Tumblr at girl-in-red-crossing.


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